Your hair is as nebulous and undecided on its colour, as the changing leaves in the fall – gorgeous waves of red and brown trying to pick a time to take that leap – to gift themselves to the earth, a living biomass for the forest floor.
Much are you, a shifting wave of benevolence, hardly a frown nor any sense of malcontent – as if the stoics granted you their stony chiseled exteriors from the very hands of Da Vinci or Raphael. A masterpiece of flesh and blood and bone.
But when tears do come, they are waves of sorrow – a creeping knowledge that you are still human – perfect in your imperfections, as beautiful as ever in those brief moments of weakness as you are on the brightest summer day – wreathed in haloes of sunbeams.
And yet, vivid recollections of your beauty are nothing to do you justice, the siren song of your self wafting to and fro in a cacophonic failure to really grasp your existence.
To tell you that I love you is hardly poetic, as it barely wipes the surface from the frosted ice, peering through layers of human condition in vague tribute to your excellence.
When I miss you – I feel earthquake shockwave tremors down my spine, shaking and shattering in a longing of your entirety.
When I forget you in my blur of daily life, I feel horrific, as if I loosed the Old Ones from their sleep to wreak havoc upon the globe. As if I were to denounce a patron saint of all that is holy.
Your touch is catharsis.
Your kindness is freeing.
Your love is sustenance.
And yet it is this.
